


Coffee, Tea, and a Lifetime Between

by The_Apostrophe_of_Catastrophe



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient China, Banter, Bickering, But they connect, Coffee, Comedy, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, History, Humor, I'm not really a historian I just like tea a lot, Idiots in Love, My history nerd is showing, No Plot/Plotless, One Shot Collection, Romp through history, Tea, but with TEA!, minimal plot, they're such an old married couple, this is soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:28:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24586114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Apostrophe_of_Catastrophe/pseuds/The_Apostrophe_of_Catastrophe
Summary: Humanity has a wide variety of delights to sample; it's a pity that two of its oldest inhabitants can't seem to decide on which one is superior.Or, Aziraphale and Crowley and their relationship with two specific human beverages (and each other) over the course of a few millennia. Featuring the history of coffee and tea, and the discovery of something still more beautiful.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 5





	1. Prologue: And Not a Drop to Drink

**Author's Note:**

> This is, above all else, an ode to tea. It is also a love story, told in vignettes throughout history, between two immortal beings and their relationship with the Earth as well as each other. (It is also an excuse for me to research something that I happen to be very passionate about, but let's ignore that, shall we?)
> 
> Some of this might be historically inaccurate; occasionally, this will be by choice, because what is the point of writing in a universe in which all of history is your sandbox? But other times, it will be accidental, either because I could not find enough information (it would not be the first time Google has failed me) or else because I was too lazy to read an entire library for the sake of writing something that is as much therapy as anything else. However, if any of you happen to be proper historians, drop me a comment! I'd love to pick your brain for information! 
> 
> This is also for the folks on the Slow Show Support Group-- you know who you are and I both blame you and thank you for (unintentionally) inspiring my Muse! (She's been napping for far too long.) 
> 
> Bon appétit!

Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate and Principality of Heaven, stood empty-handed at the edge of the Garden looking over the wide, white expanse of desert. Eden stood behind him and the whole rest of the world (Earth, they were calling it in Heaven) spread out before him. The sand’s glare made him squint, which was odd in itself; apparently, human eyes could only take in so much light. (He wasn’t entirely used to this more human form, but his superiors explained that, if he was going to live among the humans for the foreseeable future, it wouldn’t do to blind them every time he was called to interact with them.)

A hot wind rippled across the sands, ruffling his wings; the blaze of the newborn sun had dried the lingering rain drops on his feathers ages ago. Although the rain hadn’t bothered to linger in Eden, Aziraphale did. It was so beautiful here, rich and green and lush. But no, he couldn’t remain here any longer; his duty was to watch the humans, ensure their safety. (“But don’t interfere,” Gabriel had warned him. “They’ve already made the ultimate mistake, they have to pay the ultimate price. Just make sure they don’t die _right away._ ” Aziraphale hadn’t fully understood, truth be told. Death had not yet been born, after all. Still, he had nodded, smiled, and hoped Gabriel didn’t see the way his hands trembled at the prospect of taking on such responsibility, especially one so undeserved after his own monumental blunder and following foolishness.)

Briefly, Aziraphale wondered where Crawly had gone. He had hovered under Aziraphale’s wing until the rain stopped. He hadn’t tried to make conversation, not after their initial introduction, which was probably for the best. An Angel and a Demon, after all, could not possibly have anything in common, and therefore nothing to talk about. Still, Aziraphale had not minded the company. Would Crawly remain in the Garden, now that his assignment was complete? Would he follow the humans in the hopes of further tormenting them? He hadn’t seemed that bad, really, in Aziraphale’s opinion; he had been polite, and had even gone so far as to reassure Aziraphale, which had finally quieted his spinning thoughts. And he was funny! Aziraphale had felt a little guilty for laughing at the demon’s ill-timed joke, but it felt good to laugh. Heaven had been full of laughter, once.

Aziraphale wondered whether… but no. Best not dwell on what-ifs. The lines between them were as stark as the contrast between their wings.

Instead, Aziraphale straightened his shoulders, looking over the expanse of desert he had yet to cross. Sand to the right, sand to the left, sand to the front, his mouth felt gritty just looking at it all. He didn’t know how long he would be here, but surely if She had taken so much time and care in creating the Earth, there must be something more to it than this. With one last glance to the Garden behind him, the Angel smiled. 

Well then. He would just have to find it. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I won't spend too much time on research," I tell myself.  
> "You fool. You damn fool," whispers the voice in my head.

I: Chaye (tea leaf)

Yunnan Province, China: 1168 BC 

Here is a fact: Aziraphale, Principality of Heaven and Ex-Guardian of the Eastern Gate, was—above all else—an Angel. This came with several connotations. Angels were beings entirely unlike humans, practically a different species. Like a giraffe and an elephant, or perhaps a giraffe and a brontosaurus, as both were so odd and unlike each other that there was no way to confuse one for the other. Both were Made (shaped and formed by _Her_ eons ago for reasons still unknown and ineffable) and even created with several similar characteristics—namely sentience and the ability to feel emotion. 

But angels were more than a categorization, such as animal, vegetable, or mineral. Being an angel was a job, like being a farmer or a mason or a smith. It was a title, a responsibility, a privilege. And Aziraphale often wondered if he was really fit for the task. 

Aziraphale’s job, for the most part, was that of a guardian. It was what he was Made for, you see, initially to ensure that the humans didn’t die out right away and thus undo all of the Almighty’s hard work by eating the wrong plant or spending too frightfully long in the sun. Earth was his domain; he had been stationed here since its beginning, and though the millennia sometimes felt long (especially during those early days, when there was so little happening, and the little that _did_ happen happened so _slowly_ ) he could hardly complain about his job. He liked the humans, loved them, in fact. He was meant to, it was part of the job, but he would have done it anyway, he often thinks, even if it had not been a requirement. After those first initial decades, he had been advised to back off, to hold himself back from interfering, unless advised otherwise by his superiors. Or at least, to hold himself back from interfering _too often,_ a distinction Gabriel eventually made in an office memo when they realized Aziraphale was very bad at refraining altogether from performing the occasional minor miracle here and there. “Frivolous,” they called it, but they couldn’t expect Aziraphale to be stationed as a protector on a planet constantly trying to kill its own inhabitants and _not_ do his job, could they? 

(This was a point he brought up on one occasion around the earth’s 280th year of existence. Michael hadn’t been able to argue the point, and Aziraphale spent the next half century feeling guilty for the somewhat snappish tone he had used.) 

Being an angel, and a divine being, Aziraphale had certain standards of behavior to live up to: set a divine example for the humans, don’t interfere in day to day matters, maintain an appropriate level of distance—that is to say, blend in, but don’t try to be one of them, because that could lead to all sorts of nastiness that hadn’t been seen since prior to the earth’s creation. 

But here is another fact: even to an immortal being, a century is a long time, a millennium even longer. And Aziraphale, while he knew that his job was important, sometimes felt…unappreciated. No, no that wasn’t the right word. (After Babel, Aziraphale found that the humans started placing a lot of emphasis on words.) He felt unnecessary. Not always, mind you; missions and miracles and assignments trickled in in a steady stream, most decades, especially that period with Moses and the hot days in Egypt that came before him. So, on what Aziraphale was beginning to think of as his free time, he would (occasionally, hesitantly, wonderingly) take initiative and do a little exploring until such a time as Heaven required his services in a specific matter. 

Aziraphale was of the mindset that one should always do the best one could, at all times. This meant that, if his orders were to blend in with the humans, he would blend in with the best of them. If he was to guard them (whether from themselves or the wiles of the Enemy) he would do it to the best of his abilities—so long as he was permitted. And if he was to love them…well. Love came easiest with understanding, did it not? 

He came to this decision while living in Mesopotamia, about three centuries into his job on earth. It was the figs, really; people had begun really understanding a concept of agriculture, and that they could do things for pleasure, not merely survival. Humans had such a capacity for joy; Aziraphale found that he nearly envied them for it—he would have, were it not a sin. That was his first step, his desire to understand. He found that the humans seemed most happy when they were eating. (They also seemed very happy doing _other things,_ but Aziraphale was not about to get into that.) Granted, they had to eat; God had not made them capable of surviving without sustenance. But they took so much joy in it, and food was innocent enough, surely. Joy, after all, was a virtue. 

A single bite into a sun-ripened fig made him think he might be a step closer to understanding human joy after all. 

It progressed from there. Egyptian beer, Grecian wine. Figs and honey and warm flat bread hot off of a fire—Aziraphale took to sampling things wherever he went. 

It had been too long, really, since he had last been to China, he mused. He had always liked it here; the people were kind, and respectful, and clever—so very clever. Their writing style alone was every bit as elegant as the Egyptian hieroglyphs, but far more efficient, even if Aziraphale had a hard time reading them. 

(That was something he rather loved, reading; humans were utterly obsessed with recording their lives, perhaps because they were so regrettably short. He hoped they would start recording their stories more frequently, as they had so many good ones. The one about Gilgamesh was coming to a peak in popularity over in Babylon, last he had been there.) 

Currently, Aziraphale was congratulating himself on a job well-done and taking a much deserved rest. He had just come from performing a minor miracle in a neighboring village (“We need to start thinking of expanding,” Gabriel had told him with something bordering on enthusiasm. “It’s come to our attention that you’ve been rather centered in one part of the world for a very long time now, Aziraphale; you should get out there more. We can’t just set an example for one specific area of the world now, can we? Can’t forget the rest of civilization!” As though Gabriel hadn’t said merely a century before that the east and “those two land masses across the way” “wasn’t really their division” and most of the world didn’t already worship at minimum a dozen different deities, but Aziraphale felt it would be impolite to bring it up.) He had allowed himself a little break before he needed to make the arduous journey back (he had a few decades or so before he was really needed back in Israel, with his next big assignment having something to do with a shepherd boy and a stone—Heaven wasn’t really too keen on releasing further details) and was now leaning contentedly against a tree whose leaves smelled of sun and sweet grass. There was something about the lush greenery of this land that called to him, so unlike the desert plains and arid regions he was more familiar with. 

“Well, well, well,” said a voice that sounded like trouble. Aziraphale startled; had he had his wings on display, they would likely be puffed up. He glanced behind him and relaxed when he saw Crawly. “Long time no see, Aziraphale,” said the demon. 

“Crawly,” Aziraphale replied, relieved and perhaps a touch too enthusiastic. He cleared his throat, reined himself in. “What are you doing here?” 

“You wound me,” Crawly said, putting a mocking hand to his chest. “I might have expected a tad bit more enthusiasm, considering it’s been, what, a decade or two?” 

“Oh, my dear, I am sorry, of course I didn’t mean it like that,” Aziraphale rushed to explain. “I only meant—well, neither of us usually have much business in this part of the earth.” Crawly waved away the apology. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said, carefully sitting to join Aziraphale in the shade. He was wearing the traditional long shirt and skirt common in the area, both black, and tied with a red sash. His red hair was tied back; Aziraphale could just see a black silk ribbon looped gracefully over one shoulder. One hand held a cup, the other dangled loosely at his side. “So what brings you to these parts? I haven’t seen you since Troy. Tell me, did Odysseus ever make it home?” Aziraphale resisted the urge to snort. 

“Yes, he did in the end, no thanks to you,” he said. 

“Me?” Crawly exclaimed, indignant. 

“Yes, you. I mean, honestly, the man almost sank during that storm.” With Aziraphale on board, no less; he never should have accepted Odysseus’s offer of a ride back to Greece. 

“I’m flattered you think I can control the weather, Aziraphale, but that was just plain old bad luck. I suggested a different route, I really did; he’s the one who decided to take the scenic route. Guy’ll probably embellish it anyway, add a couple of sea monsters for the sake of his wife so that she doesn’t realize he slept with almost every woman in Greece before he started his return journey,” Crawly told him. “Whole city’ll be singing praises of his bravery and whatnot, I suspect. Point is, it wasn’t my fault,” he added. He looked so offended by Odysseus’s concept of “taking the scenic route” that Aziraphale had to laugh. 

“I suppose not,” he said, and then, just to let Crawly know he wasn’t really sore over the ordeal, he offered, “I was called out here to bestow a minor blessing. Nothing fancy, just the usual—good health, lucky harvest, that sort of thing. Heaven has been pushing us to go more global, lately.” 

“Even among those who don’t believe you exist?” Crawly asked. The tone in his voice was familiar; the demon never looked to start an argument, not really, but he always liked to dig a little deeper than Aziraphale ever felt comfortable with. 

“I spent a very long time in Egypt, Crawly,” he reminded him. “Not to mention Assyria and Kush, and—well. You get the picture. God, after all, is everywhere.” 

“Noble sentiment indeed.” 

“Well. Yes. It is my job, I suppose.” 

Crawly hummed in understanding. 

“Me, I was just bored,” he said. “Spent some time in India, recently. They’re onto some great ideas, over there, and some of them are fans of snakes, which is good for me, eyes and all, makes you something of a celebrity, but.” Here he made a complicated noise that likely meant something along the lines of _You know how it is, fame is so fickle._ “I got bored and thought, _oh, I know, lots of exporting to foreign countries stemming from a little further east, crime rates are probably rising,_ and decided I’d check in. Been a while since I’ve been in this neck of the woods.” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, brightening. “I’m delighted at how much progress they seem to be making here. Did you know, they’ve already discovered that boiling water makes it safer to drink?” 

“Really?” asked Crawly. 

“Oh, yes! A local emperor recently put out a decree that all drinking water must be boiled.” (Of course, for Aziraphale and Crawly, _recent_ was a flexible term that could span any time between the last week and the last five-hundred years, and Aziraphale hadn’t been able to get a clear answer on the subject.) 

“Have they now?” Crawly asked. “Well, boiled water isn’t nearly as exciting as wine, anyhow. Have you tried this? Or are you still telling yourself you don’t indulge in earthly delights?” he teased, offering his cup to Aziraphale. 

“Oh, Crawly, you know perfectly well I haven’t said that in centuries,” Aziraphale scoffed. It was true; they had…not _met_ , per se, not on purpose at least, but the world was so small, especially in those earliest years, and humanity hadn’t spread out very far. It was simply logical that Aziraphale had met his immortal enemy so frequently; the odds were terribly in favor of such a coincidence. He took the little cup, sipped, hummed with delight; food and drink were an experience, to Aziraphale, from the texture of the clay cup to the way the wine trickled down his throat, coating every taste bud as it went. It wasn’t just in the eating of food, but the moments that surrounded the activity. And this was a fine one indeed. There was sun on his face and the scent of grass, and company beside him that—while perhaps not _savory_ by Heaven’s standards—was certainly agreeable, at least. He opened his eyes to find Crawly staring at him. He did that a lot; Aziraphale always assumed it was because of the lingering effects of serpent-hood that he had simply never shaken off. Snakes weren’t big on blinking. 

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, and Crawly seemed to shake himself. 

“Ssso,” he said, “I heard through the grapevine that you’ve been busy.” 

“My dear boy, I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Don’t play dumb, angel, you’re better than that. Tell me about this upcoming situation back west. There’s talk of some pretty important kings coming up and Hell wants me to have a front row seat.” 

“I’m sure I couldn’t reveal such delicate information to the enemy,” Aziraphale said, though he had stopped sounding shocked at suggestions like this about seven hundred years ago, and knew that he now sounded nothing more than mildly admonishing. In truth, he used very nearly the same tone parents of particularly spoiled children use when their child complains of never being allowed any fun after they have been denied a second helping of dessert: mildly reproachful, but already leaning toward indulgence. Aziraphale knew it, and judging by the glint in Crawly’s eyes, he knew it too. 

“Well, if you can’t be tempted to reveal such information to an enemy, what about to a drinking partner?” 

Aziraphale told himself he wasn’t _pretending_ to consider, that Crawly really was just that good at his job. “Well, perhaps if I were to gather some information for my own end,” he mused. Crawly’s grin widened. 

“Naturally,” he said, reaching up to grasp a scraggly branch of the tree he and Aziraphale sat beneath and hoisting himself up. It snapped, and he landed in a puddle of limbs. 

“My dear boy! Are you quite alright?” Aziraphale asked, and he knew all pretense of enmity had just flown out the window, so to speak, but Crawly simply huffed. 

“Fine, fine,” he muttered. “Stupid tree.” 

“Now, there’s no cause for that,” Aziraphale chided, taking the branch clutched in Crawly’s hand and helping the demon up. “It’s not like it did it on purpose.” 

“Hmph. Coulda fooled me.” 

Aziraphale shook his head, reaching up to match the broken branch with the tree, and with but a thought, the branch had reattached itself as though it had never broken. “Much better,” he said approvingly, then turned to Crawly. “Now, I believe you mentioned something about a drink?” 

Crawly’s irritation cleared in an instant, becoming something far more pleased. “Well, it couldn’t _hurt_ anything, could it?” 

“Indeed not,” Aziraphale agreed. “Well, lead on, my dear fellow.” 

“Sure,” said Crawly. “I know this great guy, makes the best rice wine you’ve ever tasted…” 

And together, the pair headed back toward the village, leaving the tea tree waving softly in the breeze behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As context, for the history nerds out there who happen to be interested, scholars estimate that 1168 BC would take place during the book of Judges in the Bible. King David hasn't been born yet, and the Battle of Troy has just recently ended. Babylon is still a kingdom (will be for the next few hundred years) and (according to legend, at least; I didn't find any historical documentation on the subject) Chinese emperor Shennong has already decreed that his subjects must boil their drinking water-- a trick Europe wouldn't discover until the 1800's AD. History is wild. Also, the upcoming "situation" Crawly and Aziraphale mention is the birth/reign of three incredibly important kings in Israel's history: Saul, David, and Solomon, who are all quite close to each other in time.  
> "But where is the tea?" you ask. Well, no tea is drunk in this chapter, but I found out that in the Yunnan Province of China, there is a tea tree THAT IS OVER 3,000 YEARS OLD (we think, at least). And I thought, "what if Aziraphale blessed it a few millennia back, and that's part of why it's still there?" (As a side note, I also discovered that it is highly protected by the Chinese government, and that could be a chapter in and of itself.) Actual tea will likely be drunk next chapter. (And I bet that has you on the edge of your seat right there, eh?)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are like coffee and cream: delightful on their own, but a masterpiece together!


End file.
